The Body in the Library
by youthere
Summary: Having been handed the reins of the family business, the brothers track an angry spirit that's wandered very far from home...
1. Chapter 1

**The Body in the Library **by **Youthere**

X

All the usual **disclaimers **apply.

Set just after** Phantom Traveler**. **Spoilers that far.**

This doesn't get all that violent or gory, but there is a definite **gross-out factor. You've been warned. **

**Great thanks** to Adara Chan for lending me a hand (or a brain). Of course I did my usual compulsive post-beta rewriting, so for any mistakes, blame me.

**I decided **to do an experiment on this one and see if I couldn't clean up my language. Note that the f word is not in there once. If you've read any of my other stuff you'll know that's quite an accomplishment.

Ah well, **here goes:**

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_This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. _

_If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean- 785 555 0179. He can help._

_-Phantom Traveler_

ONE

_Call my son Dean. He can help._

_Dean can help. Sure he can. Bring it on._

Except ,of course, that he can't help his brother, who is spiraling down to who-knows-where, or his father, who is already there and in who-knows-what kind of trouble.

Polishing off his scrambled eggs, Dean shot a covert glance at his little brother. Sam sat across the diner table, swirling his coffee listlessly, the shadows under his eyes painfully stark in the early morning light.

Maybe he should just help when people ask for it. Scream for it, more often than not. In his experience, anyway. The screamers, he knows how to help. It's not easy, but it's oh-so-much easier than his brother, stubbornly insisting he's perfectly okay; or his father, not insisting but declaring he won't be needing anybody. Both giving the one fingered salute before climbing into their respective barrels and pushing off down the Niagara.

_But hey, Dean can help. Sure he can... Bring it on._

Draining the last of his own coffee, he turned a page in the Conway Gazette. A headline caught his attention and he studied the article for a while, picking out sentences that to anyone else would merely have seemed like random bits of crazy.

_Oh, this was just what he needed to cheer Sammy up._

"Hey, check this out," he said, looking up from the paper and pointing to the article in question. "An antiquities dealer in town was found with his throat slashed. The cut was so deep it almost took his head off."

He ran over that sentence again in his head. Okay, so it wouldn't _cheer _Sam _up_, exactly. But still: nothing like a hunt to get your mind off your troubles.

His brother looked up. "Yeah? What makes you think it's a hunt? Maybe it's just some psycho."

"Well, the guy's daughter-in-law saw a man on the scene that _'vanished into thin air,_'" Dean said with the air of a maitre d' introducing the evening's first delicacy. "Also, according to her, the man was dressed in a military uniform from the 19th century. So unless someone is making Texas Chainsaw Massacre into a period drama..."

Sam nodded. "...There's an angry spirit in Conway." He nodded again and emptied his coffee cup. "Okay, let's go"

Dean watched as his brother tossed a tip on the table and then headed for the door in long, purposeful strides. He grinned to himself. _Yup, miracle cure... _

O

The Sharps sat huddled together on their sofa, a tiny clump of human flesh in a great expanse of plush velvet. It was anyone's guess whether they sat like this for mutual support, or were simply squashed together by their combined weight, creating a ski slope of antique sofa on either side of them.

Dean couldn't help but stare at the couple, but hey, he was supposed to be trying to get a feel for them anyway. So far he'd figured that, even if the ghost Mrs. Sharp saw was real, she was probably still nuts.

She had probably been a lovely sight at some point in her life and Dean had to admit that she remained, if not beautiful, then impressive. Not a lot of women in their fifties pulled off henna red, waist length curls, knee high Doc Martins' and a dress with more flowers on it than your average Amazonian jungle. But the Mrs. wore it, again if not with grace, then with attitude. She was probably nuts, but he kinda liked her.

The same could not be said of her husband, though. Mr. Sharp was just over fifty with thin, mouse brown hair pulled back into a middle length pony tail that accented his sagging face. Said face sported overly moist, goggling eyes and a melancholy, slightly helpless expression. He was wearing Moby-type glasses, slacks and, strung over a gut about as flabby as his face; a beige hemp shirt. Looking at him, Dean could just smell the steam cooked soy meat, stewing away happily to the dulcet tones of Kenny G.

He shuddered.

Some of his thoughts must have showed on his face, because Sam elbowed him hard and shot him one of his best disapproving glares. Then he turned his attention back to Mrs. Sharp, who was looking deeply embarrassed.

"Look, Agent, I'm sorry I even mentioned it to anybody. It was just... I was scared, you know? We had just found Ellis...like that... and I just... I don't know, I was seeing things. It was nothing, I feel like an idiot." She laughed harsh and shaky. "I mean he disappeared into thin air. What are you gonna do, have the Ghost Busters make the arrest?!"

"Hah!" Dean scratched the back of his neck with a strained grin. "Yeah Ghost Busters, that's... that's funny."

"Mrs. Sharp," Sam cut in, doing that forehead wrinkling thing that just seemed to work wonders on witnesses."Could you describe the man you saw?"

"I didn't see anything. There was nobody there!"

"Ma'am..." Sam paused for a second, then went on."We have heard some very strange stories in our work for the Bureau. People's minds tend to play tricks on them under stress. But we also know from experience that no information can be safely ignored, no matter how trivial it seems. And even if we don't need the Ghost Busters-" he gave a small conspiratorial smile. "-Every detail is still important."

He leaned in closer. "So I'm going to need you to describe him, please. As thoroughly as you can."

Awed despite himself, Dean listened to the complete and utter wad of crap delivered with the quiet confidence of a seasoned professional and the steady sincerity of a truly honest man. He shook his head minutely. And the kid refused to hustle poker - what a waste of talent.

He jerked himself out of his thoughts as Anna Sharp cleared her throat and, albeit hesitantly, started to speak.

"He did look a bit familiar;" she said. "But I don't know from where...He was quite tall and had these very bright eyes, and he was wearing a British officer's uniform, probably from the 19th century."

Dean frowned. "How do you know the uniform?"

"Well, we get a lot of army paraphernalia through the dealership, so I know my basics. I wouldn't be able to tell you his rank or his regiment or anything, though."

"I see." The older brother turned his attention to Mr. Sharp. "Now, you say you didn't see this man... or anything at all?"

"Well, no. We came in and found my father... on the floor...I stayed with him and Anna ran out into the hallway to call 911. And that's where... Well, but how would I have seen him if it was all in her mind?"

"Right," Dean answered with a strained grin. "Right. No, you wouldn't have..."

"Look," Mr. Sharp said, taking his wife's hand in his. "We truly appreciate your dedication, we do. But it's very hard to talk about this and we've already gone over it three different times..."

"Three times?"

"Yes. The local police, you two and the other FBI agent."

"There was another FBI agent?" Sam asked.

"Yes, a man maybe in his early fifties. Something like a Mid West accent..."

Dean swallowed. "Uh, could you describe him any further?"

Mr. Sharp looked puzzled. "Yeah... uh, he was a bit on the skinny side, dirty blonde hair... I dunno, average height." He looked questioningly at the brothers.

Dean sagged a little. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. "Well, yes that is agent... uhm... our colleague... from Quantico, who was sent here too. The Bureau likes to be ...thorough in its' investigations."

He stood up. "Thank you for your time ma'am, sir. If anything else comes to mind, or if something comes up, please don't hesitate to call."

O

Sam slammed the door behind him and found his brother sitting on his bed, munching on a pizza.

"Dean, did you have to get room nr. 13?" he asked as he snagged a slice and flopped down on the chair by the desk.

"Don't tell me you're scared of a number, Sammy. It's not gonna eat you."

Sam eyed the salt lines lying thick against the room's two windows and then his brother's duffel, already lying on the bed nearer the door and claiming it as the elder's territory. "Yeah, you're right. I'm paranoid."

"Hey." Dean frowned as he took another mouthful of pizza. "There's cautious and there's chicken, Chicken. Besides, that's 'cause of things that actually _would _eat you."

Sam gave a half smirk. "Whatever."

"How went the library?" Dean asked, licking his fingers. "Find anything?"

"Not much. No similar deaths in the area as far back as documentation goes, no history connecting the Sharps to any British regiments. This area also didn't see much action in the civil war, or any other conflict involving the British. I was thinking..." He leaned back in the chair and looked at his brother. "If the Sharps get a lot of army paraphernalia, then maybe he came with some of their merchandise. I mean, he doesn't seem to be local..."

"You mean like a haunted object?"

"Yeah, a cherished personal possession, a murder weapon..." Sam shrugged. "I think we should go see the Sharps again, take a look at their stock."

Dean nodded at that and started in on the last slice.

There was silence for a while, Sam staring strangely intently at the carpet. Then he started speaking again. "I also heard a rumor that there _was_ an FBI agent in town. He looked at the murder in connection with a serial case, but figured it wasn't connected. He's left again."

Dean nodded. "Good. Won't have to worry about him, then."

Sam shook his head bemusedly. "You know, for a second back there... I though maybe it was..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but he didn't have to. Dean just shrugged, and the silence continued.

O

Surprisingly, the actual premises of Sharp Antiques was a large sun-filled building, the merchandise organized neatly on large white shelves, creating a feeling of efficiency and even modernity despite the archaic nature of the objects themselves.

Mrs. Sharp was also a bit surprising where she beamed at Dean from behind the counter. Gone was the Janice Joplin wannabe of the previous day, replaced by a business woman in a plain skirt suit, with her hair held in a tight bun, high on her head.

"Agent Steed!" She smiled warmly at him, freckled skin crinkling like leather at the corners of her eyes. "Didn't bring your partner?"

"No. He went to the local archive to check on some things. I just needed to ask you a few more questions."

She looked thoughtful. "Well, he seemed pretty adamant that I should tell you everything. So I guess he'd want to know..."

Dean nodded. "Trust me. Whatever it is, he'll want to know." He almost added something about his brother and his geek status, but figured that was probably not very FBI-like. Instead he asked: "Has something happened?"

"No, no. I just realized where I'd seen the man before. The one from last night."

She led Dean into a storage room and opened a drawer, pulling out an old sepia photograph. It showed a group of 7 men, all in uniform. They were lined up with four standing and three kneeling in front and with a huge dead tiger lying on the ground in front of the group.

Mrs. Sharp handed the photo to Dean and poked a finger at the man in the middle of the kneeling line.

"That's him right there."

Dean nodded. A haunted object for sure, this would be simple.

"Do you know who he was?"

"Yes, they're all named on the back of the photo. It says this is Captain Everett Willows of the Indian Army... I think this is one of the European regiments. I guess that's not much use for your investigation." She laughed uneasily. "Why on earth I'd be hallucinating this man, I can't imagine."

"Well, the uh... mind works in ...mysterious ways." Dean threw out a brilliant smile for distraction. It worked just as well on older women. "Tell me, you haven't been handling any of the late captain's things?"

"No, this photo comes from a purchase we made of the properties of the Stark family. Mr. Stark's great grandfather was in India too, you see. That's him in the top left corner."

"And you're sure it's not him you saw?"

"No, it was Willows, for sure. I just don't understand why."

"O-kay... so what are you handling that was Stark's?"

"His library."

"I'm sorry, his what?"

"His library, or at least a fraction of it," she told him with an enthusiastic smile. "We got about 1500 volumes, some quite valuable."

Dean gave a strained grin. Okay, this was not gonna be so simple.

Realizing what he had to do, he groaned inwardly and then spoke words he'd never expected to hear from his own lips; "Could you show me that library please."

O

"1500 volumes?"

Dean sighed into the phone. He could just hear the geeky lust in his brother's voice.

"Have you gone through them yet?" Sam asked.

"You're kidding me, right? Did you not hear me say 1500? I say we just salt'n'burn the lot."

There was an explosion of incoherent sputtering on the line, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone choking on his own saliva.

"Sam?"

There was silence.

"Sam? Did you have an aneurysm?"

"Dean," came Sam's voice, every word carefully enunciated. "I'm coming down there. Don't. Touch. Anything."

Dean flipped his cell closed and grinned brightly at the stacks of books. After four years apart it was nice to know he could still play his brother like a fiddle.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Body in the Library **by **Youthere**

X

All the usual **disclaimers **apply.

Set just after** Phantom Traveler**. **Spoilers that far.**

This doesn't get all that violent or gory, but there is a definite **gross-out factor. You've been warned. **

**Great thanks** to Adara Chan for lending me a hand (or a brain). Of course I did my usual compulsive post-beta rewriting, so for any mistakes, blame me.

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TWO

Dean jerked awake at the sound of Sam's gasp. It wasn't loud but, shit, was it familiar these days. He rubbed his face tiredly and peered over at his brother, who was groggily pulling his head up off a stack of books.

They'd been camped out in the back room of Sharp Antiques for three days, now, and even geekboy Sam, every librarian's wet dream, was getting pretty far from thrilled. As for Dean, he was starting to feel deeply sorry that the spirit wasn't actually Stark, and so they wouldn't be getting a chance to torch his ass. But the library was the only thing they had that was even close to a lead, and so they filled their veins with coffee and continued to dig through the stacks of books.

Or tried to, at least.

Dean watched as Sam reached for his half empty coffee cup and cleared his throat, tired eyes already skimming over the page in front of him.

He cleared his own throat. "Bad dream?"

Sam blinked at him. "Yeah. I dreamt of that time you made BBQ tuna sandwiches."

Dean just hmph'd and turned back to his book. After a while he slammed it shut again.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"I got this for now. Why don't you head back to the motel and get some sleep?"

"I'm fine."

"Sam..."

"Dean. I'm fine. Okay ? Let's just... let's just get back to work..."

Dean sighed in surrender. _So, not quite a miracle cure..._

He cranked his neck irritably and turned back to the reading at hand,the goddamn Sergeant Diaries.

It had turned out that at least some part of the Stark library consisted of the journals of Alan Stark, the man who had served in the Indian Army at the same time as their spirit. Considering this connection, the brothers had decided to start with the journals, but that still meant dozens of volumes. The large, leather books spanned almost all of the sergeant's life; his youth in England, his military service in British India and, eventually, his migration to the United States just before the century's end.

It could almost have been interesting, Dean reflected. You could find more boring things to read than stories of jungle exploration and general Indiana Jones-ing in 19th century India. But, despite his adventurous lifestyle, the Englishman had seemingly been as boring as vanilla pudding. He had fastidiously written down even the tiniest, most insignificant detail of things like the weather and his own health, and the rest of the journals were mostly dedicated to observations of political intricacies, which would have bored Dean stiff even if they hadn't been over a hundred years old.

Every now and again, Stark did write about cool stuff, but, even then, it was with the narrative flair of an accountant recording a company's cafeteria budget. It had to be a special gift to be able to make tiger hunting sound boring, but damn if old Earl Grey here hadn't managed it.

In the journals from his time in India, Stark talked a lot about Willows. It seemed as if the captain was something of an idol to the then-young Brit and the two were apparently quite close. As friends, or maybe as master and student, superhero and sidekick. Well, if Bucky kept a diary and Captain America haunted it.

Dean gave up on a particularly annoying chapter about the buildup to the monsoon season and stood up. Stretching out his back and rolling his shoulders, he made his way to the small kitchenette, just off the back room where they had set up shop. He seriously needed a caffeine fix.

Unfortunately, Mr. Sharp had beaten him to the coffee maker and was doing decaf. Figured. Dean groaned to himself but plastered on a smile when the antiquities dealer looked up. The man had, after all, been extremely helpful and it wouldn't do to start pissing him off. Pissed off people were much more likely to ask uncomfortable questions.

"How's it going with the books?" Sharp asked as the last of the brew poured through the filter, smelling almost like real coffee.

Dean grimaced. "It's going. Slowly."

Sharp nodded. "I don't understand why you need to go through the books, though. I mean, do you really think they could have something to do with my father's death?"

Dean cleared his throat. "I'm... I'm not really at liberty to say... you know. It's an ongoing investigation. But we think it's important to go over the books, yeah."

Sharp just nodded again and poured himself some coffee, turning his back to Dean. He took a breath like he was going to say something, but then just let it out again. After a moment he took another one and turned back to Dean.

"Agent Steed, I wanted to thank you."

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "We haven't really done anything, yet."

Sharp shook his head. "My father was elderly," he said with a serious expression."Nearing his eighties. People have been coming and paying their respects, offering condolences. But they do it with this... apathy. Like he died of natural causes. Like it was just his time."

He looked at Dean and the hunter was shocked to see the flabby face harden in unchecked anger. "Well, it wasn't. Someone invaded his home and murdered him. Took away his life, took him away from us. There _is_ a person out there responsible for this."

The short man drew a slow, shaky breath. "I just wanted to thank you. It's good to know that somebody sees what was done to my family. That somebody's trying to do something about it."

Then he turned and walked away, leaving the young hunter standing dumbstruck by the coffee maker.

O

"I don't understand," came Sam's voice as Dean made his way back into the back room. "These were all Stark's books but Willows is haunting them. Sometimes spirits attach themselves to possessions with great sentimental value, but these... if they had sentimental value it would have been for Stark."

The older brother shrugged and sat back down. "Maybe one of them's a murder weapon."

"How would you kill someone with a book?"

"I can think of a few ways," came a weary sigh from Dean. "Or maybe Stark killed Willows with something else but got his blood on one of the books."

"Nope. I found Captain Willows' army record. He was killed in 1876 in a skirmish on the Afghan border, got his throat slashed with a machete. His body is buried in a military plot in what's actually Pakistan now, I'm sure it never came close to Stark's library."

"Well, slit throat is the same as the victims... it is definitely him we're dealing with." Dean rubbed his face; "And his bones are in Pakistan? That's just awesome. So what the hell's he haunting?"

Sam shook his head; "I have no idea. The books are the only thing that's even remotely connected to the man. Maybe there's a clue in one of the journals...I guess we just keep reading."

Dean sighed. If he went to hell when he died, the Devil would probably make him read Alan Stark's journals over and over again for the rest of eternity. Before he could turn back to the frustrating task, however, Sam looked up from the book he'd been plowing through. "Hey, this may be something..."

Dean dropped the book he'd picked up with relief. "Please tell me I'm not just hearing things; you actually found something?"

"Yeah..." Sam said absently, peering intently at a text in one of the journals. "This is about a month before Willows buys it. They've just come out of a battle... listen to this:

_'My friend looked at me with a grave expression. He told me that he had something important which he needed to ask of me. He told me that if he should die here, he needed me to take him home. _

_He knows __that__ bodies are not taken to England from here. It is too long a voyage, t__hey would__ be horrifically damaged when they arrived. Nonetheless, he begged me to swear to him. "At least a part of me," he said. "Swear to me that you will take a part of me with you, when you return home..."_

Sam stopped reading and looked up at his brother. "A part of him. Do you think he meant like a... body part?"

Dean leaned back his head and gave a heartfelt groan. "So now we have body parts in Pakistan and England and no way to connect either to the library in the States? I hate this ghost."

"Well, what if the... whatever he took back with him didn't stay in England?" Sam said, suddenly excited. The kid could get enthusiastic about the strangest things. "What if he brought it to the States with him? That would be bound to piss Willows off. We need to find out what happened to the rest of the Stark estate, maybe it went to other dealers around the area. We have to talk to all of them."

Dean nodded. "Yup. Hate this ghost."

O

Again, Dean jerked awake. But this time it was to his brother's voice on the phone.

The brothers had finally dragged themselves back to the motel and flopped down on their respective beds, Stark's spidery handwriting dancing on the insides of their eyelids as they drifted off to sleep. But now, Dean was staring at the digital clock on the night stand showing just after oh-four and Sam was doing his 'soothing the panicky' voice. And from the shrill tone emanating from the ear piece of the cellphone, its deployment was absolutely justified.

Dean started to pull on his clothes. He knew trouble when he heard it.

With a last "Don't worry," Sam clicked his phone shut, having managed to pull on both his jeans and T-shirt during the conversation. He turned to his brother. "We have to go."

Dean waved the boot he had just retrieved from under his bed and started to slip it on. "Yeah, I figured. What's up?"

"That was Thomas Sharp. He got a call from security that someone was in the shop, so he went down and found the night guard dead on the floor."

Dean grimaced. "Let me guess, throat slashed?"

Sam nodded grimly, shrugging into his jacket. "He thought there was someone still in the shop. I told him to wait outside for us."

He gathered the shotguns that Dean had been cleaning the morning before, showed them into the weapons bag and then hoisted the whole thing onto one shoulder.

Dean smirked, slipping into his jacket. "Armed to the teeth, Sammy? Very Linda Hamilton."

"Bite me." Sam stalked out the door, bag still slung over his shoulder.

"No seriously, man," Dean called as he hopped after his brother, still wrestling one boot on. "Maybe she could give you some hair styling advice."

He pulled the boot all the way on and stopped in the doorway. Taking one last sweep of the room to make sure Sam hadn't left any weapons behind, he allowed the grin to slip from his face. Armed to the teeth was fine by him.

O

Dean had to give the man credit. Most people who had discovered two corpses in the space of four days would probably be doing something a lot more hysterical than standing on the sidewalk, hugging themselves and shivering slightly. Of course, when Mr. Sharp started speaking, his voice was a good three octaves higher than usual and his teeth clattered hard enough to make his words a bit distorted. But still, unexpectedly impressive.

Dean was about to rush straight into the building, but Sharp stopped him with a hand on the arm.

"I saw him. The captain. It wasn't some mind trick."

Dean looked down at him, pausing for a second to search for an answer. Then he simply said, "No, It wasn't."

"And I'm not crazy."

"No, you're not."

"So... Captain Willows killed my father and now Mr. Bent."

"Yes, he did."

The older man drew a shaky breath and then let it out in a fast puff. "Shit."

"That about sums it up, yes." Dean nodded.

Sharp drew another deep breath and eyed the sawed off that Sam had pulled from the weapons bag.

"What are you going to do?"

The brothers exchanged glances. Good question.

So far, their plan had been to get there. It was all good, pulling up with tires squealing impressively, but they still had no idea what would actually stop the spirit.

"You don't know, do you?" Sharp asked, scrutinizing Dean's face.

"Sure we do. This is what we do, we... stop...these things... sure we do!"

"We don't know what's keeping him here," Sam stepped in. "So we can't destroy it."

He looked questioningly at his older brother. "But if we see the ghost, maybe we can find some clue...?"

Dean shrugged. "Hey, a rampaging ghost or another day with Sgt. Pepper's diaries? I'll take the ghost."

He fished his own sawed off out of the bag and held out a hand to the antiquities dealer. "Got the keys?"  
Sharp nodded and made to walk to the door.

"It's okay," Dean said, still holding out his hand. "Just give them to me."

Sharp shook his head. "I'm coming in with you."

"What ? No, you're not!"

Sharp stuck out his chin defiantly.

"Look, just give us the keys and go wait in the car," Dean said, looming over the smaller man and trying very hard to rein in his temper. "You have no idea what you're doing, you'll just get yourself killed."

"No." Sharp shook his head stubbornly. "When _you_ find _your_ father on the floor in a bloody heap, then you get to tell me what to do."

"It's my shop, my family," he added, eyeing the older Winchester's suddenly stony expression. "I'm coming with you."

The two men stared at each other for a long time, one's expression cold and rigid, the other's scared but defiant. It was clear that standing his ground was a new exercise for the older man, but what little confidence he did have, he hung onto with an iron grip. Finally Dean shrugged and, giving Sharp one last glare, turned towards the weapons bag.

He fished out the salt canister and threw it at the antiquities dealer. "Fine. We don't have time for this. Just stay behind us and stay out of the way, or it's gonna be you I'm putting to rest tonight."

The Winchesters then each grabbed a shotgun from the bag, and the three men strode towards the darkened shop.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Body in the Library **by **Youthere.**

X

All the usual **disclaimers **apply.

Set just after** Phantom Traveler**. **Spoilers that far.**

This doesn't get all that violent or gory, but there is a definite **gross-out factor. You've been warned. **

**Great thanks** to Adara Chan for lending me a hand (or a brain). Of course I did my usual compulsive post-beta rewriting, so for any mistakes, blame me.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

THREE

The nighttime version of Sharp's Antiques looked somewhat different from the brightly lit, efficiently organized establishment that the Winchesters had been spending the past few days in. Bathed in the soft light from the lamp posts outside, and the occasional spot from the brother's flashlights, the objects stocked did really look their age. In fact, the whole place looked a little older, a little eerier.

Entering by the front door, they walked into the gloomy main space of the shop, which had in the daytime been a largish, sun filled area with a counter just by the far wall. The space stretched a bit on their left-hand side before leading off into the back rooms. On their right were several aisles of white industrial shelves, which had looked almost clinical in the light of day.

Now, however, they were deep gores of darkness, populated with swirling shadows and puzzling highlights. Ornate, heavy and intricately shaped forms mingled and bled together in the recesses of the shelves, making Dean feel like he was trying to see pictures in clouds or deciphering mirages over the desert.

It was hard to connect the silent brooding forms with anything as ordinary as picture frames or chandeliers.

The body, however, he had no trouble with. That was a form depressingly familiar and all too clear. Mr. Bent the security guard lay on the floor just in front of the counter in the main space, in a large, dark pool of his own blood. Staring at him, Mr. Sharp cleared his throat."Are...are you sure we shouldn't call the police?"

"Trust me," Dean murmured. "They wouldn't know what the hell to do with this."

He knelt down by the edge of the blood pool and let the beam of his flashlight ghost over the body, the black slick becoming crimson as the light swept over it. He caught sight of something lying half-submerged in the puddle and cursed under his breath. It was one of the journals; he should recognize the damn things by now.

Dean reached out for the book, but couldn't stretch quite far enough. He groaned and stepped into the puddle, cringing as the carpet squelched beneath his foot._ Great, _he thought as he grabbed the journal, _leaving a bloody __boot print__ at a murder scene. Way to cover our tracks._

Standing next to him, Sam peered over Dean's shoulder as the older brother rifled through the book.

"I don't think we'd gotten to this one yet," he offered. "All the dates are from the time Stark had already returned to England."

Dean shrugged and turned back to the first page. Written on it in a handwriting slightly more elaborate than the rest of the book were the words:

"_In memory of my friend Capt. Everett Willows, who will always be near my thoughts."_

All three men stared at the inscription. "Well," Dean said after a while, "I'm guessing this book is important ..."

Sam nodded and then cleared his throat "Yeah, but ... why? Nobody haunts an inscription. This wouldn't be enough to keep a ghost anchored to this plane."

"Uh..." Sharp injected; "...not that this isn't an interesting question, but were we waiting for a ghost to show up...?"

As he trailed off, the brothers' eyes followed his line of sight to the door.

Just inside it stood a man, strangely pale in the shadowed room. His form didn't waver or shimmer, and it looked as solid as any man's. But he did seem oddly out of sync with the shadows surrounding him, like the light on his face wasn't from the same source as that which illuminated the rest of the shop.

He looked to be in his mid to late thirties, with a tall thin body and a shock of blond hair poking out from under his hat. His eyes were sharp and cold and gleamed in contrast with a weathered face. The apparition seemed strangely drained of colors, but if they had been visible Dean would have expected to see a deep tropical tan, underlining eyes of cold winter gray.

Staring silently at the trio in the middle of the floor, Captain Willows took a few more steps into the room, carefully keeping himself between the hunters and the door. Coming to a halt, he reached over his shoulder and drew the single largest machete Dean had ever seen. It came out of its sheath with a slight hissing noise and, even though the blade seemed illuminated by the same alien light as the rest of the apparition, it still cast a wicked gleam all down the length of it's edge.

Dean could hear Sharp gasp beside him. The older man leaned towards the hunter's ear and whispered, "Is it just my imagination, or does he actually _look _like Paul Hogan?"

Dean gave a surprised chortle. "Now that you mention it..." He hefted the shotgun. "But you know, it doesn't matter how big your knife is if you're staring down the barrel of a gun."

Willows proved him wrong. Before the hunter could even cock his gun, the ghost had waved his hand and sent all three men flying through the air, to crash into the wall behind them. Sharp gave a startled yell as the salt canister was knocked from his hand by an invisible force, and sent skittering along the floor into the jungle of aisles. Sam didn't even get a shot off before his gun followed. Dean did, however, manage to hold on to his and, by the time Willows was disappearing in a cloud of rock salt, Sam was already scrambling to his feet heading to the aisles and to his gun.

He made it about half way across the floor before the captain materialized again. He appeared directly in front of Sam, knocking the young hunter off his feet with a sight flick of his wrist.

Dean shouted out his brother's name and took aim, but Willows barely had to look up to yank the weapon out of his hands and send it to join his brother's in the dark recesses of the aisles.

Dean scrambled to his feet and ran frantic eyes over the objects littering the shelves and walls around him. Iron. They needed iron. He was surrounded by countless candlesticks, lamps and statuary, but it all looked hopelessly silver and brass. Then his eyes alighted on an object mounted on the wall directly over his head, and he almost laughed.

A large red shield hung on the wall, complete with somebody's family crest and -_oh yeah_- two crossed swords that looked blessedly iron. Grinning, he reached for the handle of one. This was just so cool!

Dean heard a near feral growl behind him and, turning, was shocked to see Sharp rush the ghost, who now had a hand wrapped around Sam's throat, practically lifting the young man up off his feet.

Of course, Sharp didn't stand a chance against the ghost's abilities, and was simply swept back into the wall next to Dean with a small yelp. He looked up to see the hunter still grasping the handle of the sword and shook his head.

"These were usually made for decorative purposes," he offered. "It's all welded together."

Dean groaned. So much for his Zorro moment. He glanced back to his brother, whose arms were flailing helplessly through fog like ghost arms, which nonetheless seemed to have the substance needed to effectively choke him. Willows had his machete against Sam's throat and, ghostly as it looked, Dean had no doubt about the damage it could do.

Without hesitating, the older brother grabbed the edges of the decorative shield with both hands and pulled, grunting as the heavy mass of metal fell down onto his chest. Staggering slightly under the burden, he ran towards his brother, swinging the heavy shield up in front of him and straight through Willows' spirit.

The captain dissipated but the momentum of the swing sent Dean barreling headlong into his brother, shield first. Sam grunted as all wind was knocked out of him and both hunters tumbled to the floor.

Coughing and gasping for air, Sam rolled over and eyed his brother. "Smooth move," he ground out.

Dean nodded. "_I_ thought so. God, are you okay?" asked, studying a nasty cut the machete had left on his brother's neck. "You're bleeding like a stuck pig."

Sam nodded, giving the standard Winchester "I'm okay."

Dean just hmph'd and slipped off his outer shirt. Balling it up, he handed it to is brother. "Here, keep pressure on it."

He stood up and hoisted Sam up by his elbow. "I think we need to get out of here, regroup. Don't think we'll learn anything useful by having that freak hack up your neck."

Willows, however, seemed to be keeping a stiff upper lip. As the brothers, joined by Sharp, turned and headed for the door he reappeared in the same spot as before. The captain positioned himself squarely between the three men and the exit, his machete held tight in both hands with the much-too-real-looking blade glinting evilly.

Brilliant gray eyes, sparkling from a sun scorched face, he stared at the trio, free of anger or malice but simply cold and calculating. He looked at them like a general preparing to wipe out a regiment or a hunter who already knows the prey is his.

Dean grabbed Sharp's shoulder. "We'll distract him, get to the guns!"

The older man nodded and turned on his heel, but then suddenly stopped and stared frozen at the shelves forming the aisles. Every object in them had started to rattle in its place, banging loudly against the metal of the shelves. As the three men stared in puzzled horror, the shelves themselves started to sway and topple. The rumble of their descent mingled with the higher-pitched sounds of the objects banging against each other but also with stranger, more chaotic sounds. The clamor of rain forest canopies, marching orders under a sweltering sun, battle shouts and the thuds of bullets hitting flesh, blades impacting on meat.

Backing away from the canyons of shadow, Dean shoved a shoulder in front of his brother. "Sonovabitch," he hissed, half awed and half plain pissed. The words had hardly died on his tongue when, as if swept up in the world's most violent temper tantrum, the merchandise started flying out of the shelves, rocketing across the shop's main space to explode against the opposite wall.

"SONOVA..." Dean didn't manage to finish his curse this time, before getting knocked off his feet by a flying something-or-other. A Baroque soup server, Sharp said later, but Dean really couldn't care.

He felt Sam's hands fisting the back of his jacket, hauling him up off the floor, and he briefly wondered why he was being hauled off a floor he couldn't remember lying on in the first place. Then they were running. Amidst a rain of plaster, porcelain and wood, Sam hoisted his brother through the door to the back room. Sharp followed close on their heels and slammed the door shut.

"You okay?" Sam breathed as Dean staggered against the wall in the hallway.

The older hunter just nodded and turned to Sharp. "We need weapons! Iron, salt... Tell me you've got something."

Sharp appeared to think for a moment and then grabbed the hunter's sleeve. "There's salt in the kitchenette!"

The antiquities dealer jumped as the door flew open behind them. Sam whirled around, facing it and blocking the others from it as if to defend them from Willows. What he was planning to do that with, though, Dean didn't know. He growled in hearty disapproval and grabbed his brother by the back of the collar.

Towing Sam behind him and pushing Sharp by a grip on the arm, he propelled them both through the back room. "Kitchenette! Now!"

They hurtled through the doorway of the small break room, Sam slamming the door behind them and then leaning all his weight on it, as the thing shook wildly it its frame.

Dean turned to Sharp. "Salt! Get the salt!"

He needn't have given the order. The oldest man had already flung himself, head first, into one of the cabinets, and now emerged, thrusting a small bag at Dean.

"What the hell is that?" the hunter hissed.

Sharp looked confused. "You wanted salt..."

"Yeah, salt. This is green."

"It's yeasted herb salt."

For a second Dean just stared at the baggy, dumbfounded.

Apparently feeling he needed to vouch for his choice in condiments, the antiquities dealer shook the bag at him. "It's really good for making hummus. Or guacamole... And it's organic produce and everything!"

With a scowl, Dean snatched the baggie from his hands. Then he laid a salt line along the threshold, twining a long litany under his breath about health freaks, fancy foods, snobby salads and green things in general.

The frantic pounding on the door quieted and Sam righted himself, stumbling into the center of the room and pulling the journal from earlier out of his inner pocket.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before he could make a sound, the book was knocked out of his hand. Sam gasped as he found himself standing face to face with a scowling Willows, who was standing over the book with the protective stance of a guard dog. He made no move, however, and neither did Sam; spirit and hunter just standing stock still and staring at each other. They would have been close enough to feel each other's breath, if one hadn't been holding his breath and the other actually had any.

Dean cursed quiet but vehemently. "I knew this fancy-assed salt was no good!" he hissed.

"It's not 'cause of the salt," Sam muttered, eyes glued to the scowling figure in front of him. "He's attached to the book somehow."

Just as Willows finally did raise his hand, swinging his machete up for a blow, Dean drew back his arm and hurled the rest of the baggie's contents at the spirit. It dissipated with a wail and all three men exhaled a breath of relief.

Sam picked up the battered volume lying on the floor and weighted it in his hands. "I don't understand. Why would the spirit be attached to the book? I'm sure just the dedication isn't enough."

Dean peered over his brother's shoulder at the thing. "You think Stark worked some mojo on it?"

"No, I ...," Sam trailed off and stared at the battered, crinkled leather cover; thick and colored a deep, dark brown.

"Oh my god!!" The younger Winchester suddenly dropped the book making a face like he had just found himself holding a squashed sewer rat.

"What?! Sam! What?!" Dean shot worried glances between the book and his brother, who just continued to stare at it, flike the rat had just sprouted slimy tentacles and three extra heads.

"Sam! What?!"

"Anthropodermic bibliopegy."

Dean stared at his brother with a mixture of annoyance and genuine concern over his horrified expression. "Come again?" he all but shouted.

"It's.. um..," Sam cleared his throat. "It's the practice of binding books in human skin. They did it with some of the old Grimoires..."

"The practice of...? Oh God!"

Dean stared at the book. Yeah, he could definitely see the tentacles. He knelt down and scrutinized the book's stained and darkened leather cover.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah."

"_Now_ can we torch it?"

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**AN **Anthropodermic bibliopegy. Yup, they do it. Just ask wikipedia :) I based Willows' fate on that of Jonas Wright (see wiki), although I wasn't half as cruel to Willows as life was to poor Jonas.

**AN **Does this story just suck? I'll confess I'm a little unnerved by the lack of response. Am I boring you here?


	4. Chapter 4

**The Body in the Library **by **Youthere.**

X

All the usual **disclaimers **apply.

Set just after** Phantom Traveler**. **Spoilers that far.**

This doesn't get all that violent or gory, but there is a definite **gross-out factor. You've been warned. **

**Great thanks** to Adara Chan for lending me a hand (or a brain). Of course I did my usual compulsive post-beta rewriting, so for any mistakes, blame me.

**AN **I did say about the gross out factor. This is rather short, but I felt it was all tat was needed, one scene to wrap things up...

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FOUR

Dean leaned his back against the sun-baked wall and swirled his coffee lazily.

The Impala was packed and ready to go, last night's guns resting safely in it's trunk again, along with all the rest of their worldly possessions. All that remained was Sam, who was still inside the antiquities shop talking with Mrs. Sharp.

Grateful for their help, the Sharps had insisted the brothers accept some books from the Stark library as a gift. Dean shuddered at the thought. If a guy had bound one of his books in human skin, he figured, you really didn't want to take chances with the rest of his library. Sam, on the other hand, had lit up like a kid on Christmas morning at the offer. Apparently, a book was a book to him regardless of all creepiness.

He'd even taken that creed so far as to refuse to burn Stark's journal the night before. He'd simply sliced the cover neatly off the book with his hunting knife and then proceeded to burn _that, _scooping some of Sharp's supposed salt off the floor to add to the mix.

It had been a little anticlimactic, watching the tiny bonfire of one book cover smolder away into nothing, but Dean had to admit he was a little glad of Sam's anal retentiveness this time. Not that he worshipped at the Altar of Dull and Annoying, like his little brother, but salting and burning the entire book still wouldn't have seemed quite right. Galloping into town on their noble steed, swooping in at the nick of time to... burn a book? It just didn't seem like the kind of thing the good guys did.

He sighed, gave his coffee another swirl and glanced up at the shop door. Boy scout that Sam was, he would probably only feel comfortable taking one book from the collection and Dean could just see him spending the rest of the day trying to decide which one. Full on Sophie's Choice.

"You know, I have decaf inside. It's much better for you."

Dean glanced up to find Sharp looking down at him with a quirked eyebrow. He raised his Styrofoam cup in a salute. "No thanks, I'm good."

Sharp sat down on the curb next to him. "To each his own ulcer, I guess."

Dean smirked but didn't answer, and they sat in silence for a while.

"So, I guess the sergeant believed in keeping his friends close." Sharp said after a while.

Dean snorted. "Hate to think where we'd find his enemies' skins, then. That dude was crazy long before he was dead."

"Yeah..." Sharp sighed. "Dead. I never would have believed this in a million years."

"You and most people on the planet." Dean answered lightly. "Ghosts are nobody's first guess."

"Except yours" the older man said quietly. "I owe you and your partner my life. My wife's life too, probably. Thank you."

Dean just made a noncommittal shrug and mumbled something along the lines of "No problem." This kind of conversation always made him a little awkward. Well, unless it was with a hot chick.

Sensing the younger man's discomfort, Sharp changed the subject.

"Anthropodermic bibliopegi." He chuckled. "I didn't know that was even a word."

Dean grinned. "Yeah, me neither. Figures Sam would."

"Pretty smart guy, your partner."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Ivy League education and everything. Really smart." He couldn't help the strange note that crept into his voice, an equal mixture of resentment and pride.

The antiquities dealer eyed him quizzically. "You seem pretty close. Been working together long?"

"Yes and no."

The silence returned. Sharp stared into the middle distance and Dean swirled his coffee uneasily.

"Hey," the hunter finally offered, clearing his throat and nailing his eyes to the pavement in front of him. "I'm sorry about your dad."

"Thank you." There was a long pause. "You know, I never had any family other than him and then my wife, later. They were the... the fixtures of my life, the two of them. And now, half my family is just... gone, just like that. It's...I don't know."

Dean nodded, but kept his eyes on the ground. "Must be hard."

"I just...I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do, now. When he's... not... around. What am I supposed to do?"

They looked up as Sam came out of the shop, carrying a parcel and looking for all the world like he'd just won the national sweepstakes. Or nailed Carmen Electra.

Dean stood up, fishing the car keys out of his pocket and shooting the younger man an impatient scowl for good measure.

It was good to see his brother momentarily content, though, even if it was for a crappy reason. Maybe there were more crappy reasons he could find and who knew, maybe eventually, they'd be able to find a good one.

Dean turned back to Sharp, who still sat on the curb looking up at him. He cleared his throat and gave the older man a small, crooked grin.

"I guess you just try to take care of the people that _are_ around."

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**AN **Okey dokey, that's it for another one. Thanks for reading and as always, reviews make my day :)


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